Wild Life (8 page)

When Erik had finished the meat, he chewed and sucked on the bones before handing them to Quill to polish off. All too soon, there was nothing left. Erik licked his fingers for every last smidgen of flavor, then sat back with a sigh of contentment.

This contentment didn't last, however, as he almost immediately realized that he was still hungry. Very hungry.

He knew Quill had to be hungry, too.

Well, he'd just have to try to fill his belly with water. He examined the pot. The water looked pretty clear. There were just a few specks of something that had sunk to the bottom. Were the pioneers afraid of a little dirt? Did they have time to stop and boil their water every time they were thirsty? It seemed unlikely. What about when they were being chased by Indians?

Erik looked at Quill, who was lapping happily from the pothole. He poured water into his cup and drank deeply, again and again, then let out a loud belch. He felt he and Quill had done well.

But he knew they were going to have to do much better if they were going to make it.

Erik slept fitfully, visited by strange, disjointed dreams. In one his parents were being pursued by faceless bad guys in a strange land. In another, he raced about the prairie on four legs like Quill, amazed by his own speed and agility. In the last, his grandmother, frantic with worry about him, had called Mr. Poole, his elementary-school principal, to track him down. As Mr. Poole closed in on his hiding place, Erik became so anxious he felt sick—so very, very sick…

He awoke then, clutching his stomach. A painful cramp seized him, followed by another. He leaped to his feet and managed to walk a few steps before becoming ill. Sinking to his knees, he spewed the contents of his stomach onto the ground in a series of violent spasms. Lifting his head shakily, he felt the cramps moving lower and knew with dread that his illness was not going to be limited to vomiting.

Hours passed during which Erik was racked by fever and sickness. Finally, spent and exhausted, he lay faceup on his sleeping bag. Chills kept alternating with drenching sweats, and now he felt he was burning up. He gazed into Quill's uncomprehending face and wondered if he was dreaming again. Who was this creature who had been by his side all morning, staring at him with what had felt like concern and confusion? When he came to his senses enough to remember that this was Quill, that she was
his dog
, a stab of happiness pierced his misery.

He forced himself to sit up. He felt dizzy, hollowed out.

“Hey, Quill,” he said weakly. Quill gave an excited bark and started to run, looking back as if to say, “Finally! Let's
go
!”

“Hang on a second,” Erik mumbled. He knew Quill had to be hungry, and that he, too, needed food even though the idea of eating revolted him at the moment.

But his mouth—it was so dry. He tried to lick his parched lips, but nothing happened. He needed water.

Water.
Was it the unboiled water that had made him so sick? Or maybe the parts of the bird that weren't cooked all the way through? He didn't know. Watching Quill, who was merrily stalking a mouse, he envied her for being able to eat pheasant innards and drink contaminated water without so much as a burp.

Erik's shoulders sagged. He had been careless, and careless people didn't survive. He wouldn't survive, either, unless he got some food and water soon. Feeling weary, he got to his feet and started gathering wood. When he had a proper fire going, he filled the pot and waited, stoking the flames from time to time with sticks and grass, for it to bubble. He let it boil for several minutes, wishing he knew if there was some kind of rule about how long it took to kill the bugs in there. He waited some more, this time for the water to cool. As he did, he began to feel better, stronger.

A stiff breeze had come up from the northwest, bringing much colder air with it, so he put on his warmest clothing. Then he forced himself to drink the water in small, slow sips. When it was gone he boiled more to fill his canteen and, at last, he felt ready to move on.

He had recovered enough to feel his hunger return. He guessed the time to be about ten or eleven o'clock. His pack held nothing at all to eat, and Erik had just one thought in mind: finding food.

After about an hour of walking, he noticed that Quill was moving quickly, her nose down, tail wagging. Expecting a bird to go up any minute, he was unprepared when a jackrabbit appeared and started racing across the field. Erik didn't think to shoot it until it was too far away.

Quill, who approached birds slowly in order to point and hold them, showed no such restraint when it came to the rabbit. She took off after it, giving high-pitched, excited yips that sounded to Erik like a rusty gate swinging back and forth in the wind.

He laughed at first, watching the jackrabbit dodge and weave with Quill in hot pursuit. But when Quill had run well over a mile and was out of sight, he became concerned. He followed, calling for her until he grew hoarse, fighting down the panic that rose in his chest at the idea of losing her. Mike Duvochin had said she ran off on him. Maybe it had happened just this way.

Not knowing what to do, Erik sank down in the grass. He had no chance of finding Quill. She would have to find him. If she wanted to. He couldn't bear to think what he'd do if she didn't.

Finally, he saw her, a tiny speck on the horizon moving slowly toward him. Something about her gait looked strange to him. When she approached at last, she was panting heavily. Her tongue was hanging out, her tail was drooping, and she was favoring her right front leg.

Any notion of a scolding was forgotten. Erik held her head and rubbed his face along her cheek. Then he lifted her leg and examined it carefully, pressing down the length of it from shoulder to foot, gently bending each joint.

“Oh, Quill,” he said softly. “What have you done to yourself?”

He worked his way back up the leg, and she let out a little whine when he reached the joint below her shoulder. There was nothing obvious there, no cut, no bleeding, no sharp thorn. Erik figured she must have strained or torn a muscle, and hoped it wasn't too serious.

He emptied half the water from the canteen and watched as she lapped it all up. Then she lay down in the grass, tongue dripping, still panting. Erik took a small sip of water and sat beside her to wait for her to cool down.

After a while Quill got up and looked around, her nose twitching. She looked at Erik as if to say, “I'm ready. You?” And she began trotting across the field. She limped slightly with every step, but didn't appear to take any notice of it.

Erik admired her spirit but at the same time he worried about her. What would happen if she became too lame to walk? To hunt? They would starve for sure.

He imagined how good that rabbit would have tasted and promised himself he'd be ready to shoot whatever Quill found, whether it flew, ran, climbed a tree, or slithered on the ground. He paused for a moment, wondering if he was hungry enough to eat snake. The answer was yes. Yep, he sure was. He was pretty sure he remembered somebody saying it tasted like chicken, but everyone had laughed afterwards, so he wasn't sure if it was true or not.

By late afternoon, Erik had drunk all his water and missed two roosters. In desperation, he took a shot at a hen. It came down, and Quill retrieved it. Guiltily, Erik field-dressed it and put it into his pack.

It was time to start looking for a place to stop for the night. Quill's leg seemed to have recovered, but he didn't want to push her any farther than he had to.

Ahead, Erik could see some buildings. The temptation of finding easy water from a spigot, as he had before, drew him closer. He leashed Quill and they sneaked forward a few steps at a time, taking cover where they could, ready to drop to the ground at the first sign of a person.

There was a farm house at the end of a long driveway, but it had a deserted look about it. The roof was caved in on one side and the porch was falling off. As they drew closer, he saw that several of the windows were broken. There were two cars up on blocks and a rusty truck with the hood raised. Erik had the feeling it had been that way for a long time.

All the left-behind, empty houses he'd seen in town had depressed him, but now he was grateful for the way people out here seemed to just up and go, leaving a house to fall slowly to ruin. He couldn't help wondering what made them do it, and what had brought them out here in the first place.

From behind a poplar tree, he got a good look at the yard. There was a barn, an empty corn crib, and a smaller building that could have been a shed or a workshop.

He peeked in the barn and then in the shed, and saw no sign of people, or of a source of water. He was about to turn away when his eye caught on something sitting on top of the workbench. It was the familiar, brightly colored wrapper of a bag of Doritos. Mesmerized by the sight, Erik opened the door and went inside, telling himself not to get his hopes up, that the bag was surely empty. But it was full, and unopened. And beside it, in a litter of used paper coffee cups and crumpled wrappers, was a small bag of peanuts and a Snickers bar. Next to that were two cans of Mountain Dew, still attached to the plastic rings that had once held a six-pack.

The packages containing the food had been nibbled on, probably by mice. The soda cans were covered in a fine layer of dust. All of it sat on the workbench trapped amid a tangle of old spiderwebs and dead flies.

It was
beautiful
.

Erik stared at this unexpected bounty, his mouth watering as he imagined the salty taste of the peanuts and chips, followed by the sweetness of the candy. He grabbed the chips bag and held it up so Quill, who was sniffing around in the corner, could see it. Then he ripped it open, stuffed a handful into his mouth, and held out another handful for Quill.

The flood of flavor in his mouth was delicious. He continued eating, one handful for him, one for Quill, followed by a sip of soda, until the bag was empty. The peanuts he shared with Quill, but not the candy bar. As he unhooked her leash, he explained to her that he wasn't being selfish, it was just that he remembered Patrick and Mr. Holt talking about the time Hot Spots ate an entire chocolate cake and nearly died. Erik didn't know if the coating on a candy bar was enough chocolate to make a dog sick, but he wasn't taking any chances.

Besides, he told her, several times during the day he had noticed her chewing on things she had come across in her travels: grass, bones, dead animals, and, he suspected, rabbit poop. He comforted himself with the thought that she had a lot more in her stomach than he did.

As they trudged on, Erik realized that he had just helped himself to someone else's property without thinking twice about it. Earlier in the day, he'd shot a hen pheasant, something no respectable hunter would do. In the space of a single afternoon, it seemed, he'd embarked on a career in crime, going from being a mere Liar and Runaway to Poacher, Trespasser, and now Thief.

A small voice inside reminded him that he had become a thief when he ran off with Quill. She didn't really belong to him, even if her owner didn't deserve her.

Doubts about what he was doing crowded his thoughts. Was he really living off the land if he was eating Doritos and slugging down Mountain Dew? Did the fact that he was trying to survive make it okay to do things he knew were wrong? These thoughts made him uncomfortable, and he tried to put them out of his mind.

When he saw the straight line of a road about a quarter mile ahead, he put his hand on Quill's collar to control her. They approached slowly and carefully. A car appeared in the far distance, a plume of dust following in its path. They hid in some brush to wait for it to pass. Erik hunkered down as low as he could, pulling Quill down with him. Peering through the leaves of the bush that concealed them, he saw that the vehicle was a sheriff's patrol car, traveling very slowly. Was the driver on the lookout for a lost kid and a dog? Erik's heart started beating fast. They were well hidden, weren't they? To his relief, the car continued to creep down the road and finally disappeared from sight.

He wondered if it really had been looking for him and, if so, how many others were searching. There was no way to know. He and Quill had been careful, but they were going to have to be extra vigilant from here on out.

About an hour later, he staggered over a rise to see Quill wading chest deep in a pothole, slurping away, oblivious to the mud her feet stirred up. Quickly, Erik ran to the far side where the water was undisturbed and held the pot under the surface. As it filled, he thought about the eternity it would take to make a fire, get the water to boil, and wait for it to cool down afterwards.

They were well out of sight of any roads. This was a good place to camp. He cleaned the hen pheasant, surprised by how much smaller it was than a male, then made a fire and started the bird roasting and the water simmering.

The wind started to blow much more strongly, in sudden gusts that caused the smoke from the fire to swirl unpredictably. Erik's eyes were stinging and it was dark by the time the bird was cooked. He tried to eat slowly, to savor the rich flavor, but the meat was soon gone and, once again, he was left feeling hungry.

As Quill crunched the bones, Erik lay on his back and listened and watched. The wind blew even harder, bringing in clouds that obscured the stars. It howled and roared, louder than the noises of the night animals and sounding at times like a wild creature itself.

Erik got up and put on his warm jacket, then snuggled into his sleeping bag beside Quill, feeling proud. Despite everything, they had made it for three whole days.

Something was tickling Erik's nose. Without opening his eyes or fully wakening, he brushed his hand across his face. Another tickle. With a groan, he rolled over and pulled the sleeping bag up over his head. Something wet and cold ran along the side of his cheek and into his ear.

He sat up abruptly, and was astounded to see that it was snowing! His mom had been right: the weather in North Dakota could change mighty fast. Yesterday he'd been wearing a T-shirt.

Ordinarily, Erik loved snow and everything about it: days off from school, building snow forts, going sledding and snowboarding. He didn't even mind shoveling snow most of the time. But it quickly dawned on him that in his present circumstances snow could be a real problem. Quill, who was curled up in a tight ball, seemed to know it, too. She shivered, barely lifting her head.

With mixed feelings of awe and dread, he took in the scene around him. The snowflakes were not falling softly and silently like in a snow globe or a Christmas special on TV. They were being driven almost sideways by the fierce north wind that blew across the open prairie land, only landing when there was an obstacle on the ground to stop them. Like his body. Erik noticed that a drift of snow had built up on the side of his sleeping bag.

A snowstorm was fun to be out in if you had a warm house to return to, where a cup of hot chocolate waited. But he and Quill had none of that. They needed to find some shelter.

Ignoring the complaints from his empty stomach, he reluctantly climbed out of his sleeping bag and put on his warm clothing and rain jacket, glad that he had chosen a dark green color when he'd picked it out at the mall. He knew that staying dry was important. His sleeping bag was damp on the side, but not too bad. He rolled it up, tied it to his pack, and covered the pack the best he could with one of the large plastic bags he'd brought.

Shouldering his gun, he called to Quill. To his relief, she showed no sign of limping. They started off with the wind at their backs. Still, it seemed to cut right through his clothes, and the wet cold stung his exposed face and hands. He hoped moving would help to warm him and Quill, too, until he could find a sheltered place to build a fire.

After a short time they reached a dry pothole with a ring of knee-high brush around the edge. The blowing snow had caught on the brush and drifted here, too. To Erik's surprise, Quill immediately grew birdy and froze almost instantly on a hard point.

All Erik's concerns about the snow and cold vanished. He raised his gun and got ready, then moved forward with slow careful steps, crooning in a low, calm voice, “Whoa, Quill, good girl. What have we got here, huh?”

Quill held to a solid point until Erik was close enough to reach down and touch her. Still no bird went up. He walked past her in the direction she was pointing and stomped down hard with one foot, then another. A rooster pheasant exploded up out of a powdery snowdrift, cackling noisily. Erik took aim, waited to let the bird get far enough away so that his shot—if it hit—wouldn't tear the meat up too badly. Instead of the panicked rush he'd experienced with his first couple of birds, everything now seemed to unfold in slow motion. First Quill's point. Then the flush of the bird. Lift the gun. Swing. Now. Shoot.

The rooster tumbled from the sky. Quill started over to retrieve it, but turned in mid-stride to lock into another focused point only a few yards from where Erik stood. It seemed impossible that another bird would be holding so close by, what with Erik stomping around, the rooster going up, and Erik shooting. But Erik wasn't going to make the mistake of doubting Quill again. He wondered if it was something about the snow that was making the birds sit tight rather than fly or run.

Sure enough, when Erik approached the spot Quill was pointing, another rooster went up. Again, Erik saw everything happen with a slow, eerie clarity as he carefully swung, shot, and watched the bird fall from the sky.

Again, Quill started off to retrieve it and, caught by the scent of another bird, went on point. This time, Erik saw several birds scurrying every which way through the brush. Quill broke her point and began chasing them, her tail beating back and forth a mile a minute. Then, one right after another, they all broke from the cover and took to the air.

Erik told himself not to be distracted by the wild flurry rising all about him. Instead, he picked out one rooster and focused on it, willing his mind to
slow down, see, swing, shoot.
The bird dropped.

In a frenzy of excitement, Quill raced after the fallen birds. She picked up one, then dropped it to grab another, then dropped that to return to the first. Erik laughed, watching her race from one bird to another, unable to decide which to pick up. Finally she paused, and Erik thought it was almost as if she was telling herself to settle down and make a plan. Then, methodically, she picked up one bird, brought it to Erik, went for the second, brought it back, and went for the third.

When Erik had all three birds in hand, he set them on the ground and dropped to his knees. Throwing his arms around Quill's neck, he shouted gleefully, “We're gonna eat like kings today! You are the most amazing, incredible, wild, crazy, bird-dogginest bird dog in the entire world!”

Quill looked away modestly for a moment. Then she lifted her head and let out a long “Aaaroooo,” and Erik threw caution to the wind and howled along with her. Grinning to himself, Erik reflected that another nice thing about the prairie was that you could act like a total lunatic and there was no one around to see or hear. Recovering himself, he field-dressed the birds and put them in his pack.

It was still snowing. Now that they had solved their food problem, Erik realized he was wet and getting cold. He thought that, even though it was early, he should begin looking for a place where he and Quill could shelter themselves for the night. After an hour or so, a dilapidated barn came into view. When he had checked it out from a distance, he and Quill went closer. There were no footprints, no car tracks, no signs of people. Erik was also happy to see there was enough snow drifted along the southeast wall to solve the problem of finding water. Peeking into the barn, he felt a sense of elation. It was deserted. There were some bales of straw stacked against one wall. The straw would come in handy for starting a fire and, when it was spread out, would make a soft bed as well.

His feet were freezing. He took off his pack, left it inside the barn, and went out to scout around for firewood. A jackrabbit ran out of the brush pile he was scavenging in, and he was glad he had kept his gun with him. He couldn't believe it when his shot was true. Quill retrieved the rabbit but, unlike with the birds, which she always brought right to Erik's waiting hand, she didn't seem to know what to do with it. Finally, she dropped it about twenty feet from Erik and ran off to sniff around the base of a tree in a show of disinterest.

Erik laughed. “So you only like to chase rabbits, not retrieve them, is that right?” he asked. “Well, I bet you won't have any trouble eating one!”

He cleaned the three birds and the rabbit, pleasantly surprised by how easily the rabbit's fur coat slipped off, then built his fire right on the dirt floor of the barn. The wood he'd gathered burned cleanly enough that the wind, beating against the cracks and gaps in the barn walls, made for adequate ventilation. He put a pot of snow over the fire to melt.

As it grew dark, the wind continued its inhuman howling. Erik didn't mind the wind. Sheltered from it and from the snow, he felt quite cozy in the circle of firelight and warmth he shared with Quill.

He was beginning to get the hang of cooking meat on an open fire. The birds and the rabbit were evenly roasted, or at least pretty evenly. And the meat tasted wonderful. After the meal, stomach full at last, he lay on his side watching the fire.

The trouble was, now that he was free to concentrate on something besides his hunger, his mind began to fill with all the depressing thoughts that he'd been trying to avoid. Surely Oma had called his parents. They had to be furious with him, as well as frantic with worry.

Had Oma also called the police? Probably. Uneasily, he recalled all the stories about missing children he'd heard on TV. Some of them became big news. Was his picture—the dorky one where his ears looked enormous—plastered all over the nightly news?

For the first time, he asked himself what it was that he was really doing. Living a wild life, he had told himself. But now he had to admit that was only true up to a point. In so many ways, he was glad he'd had these days on the prairie with Quill. He would never forget them. But what was his Big Plan? To
head south
. Until what? He reached Mexico? Argentina? To
live off the land
. Brilliant. Eating birds and stolen junk food? For how long, forever? Until he was eighteen?

These dismal thoughts were interrupted by a muffled noise from outside the barn. It sounded like the slam of a car door. Quill heard it, too, and let out two sharp barks before Erik managed to shush her.

Panicked, Erik jumped up but quickly realized that he and Quill had nowhere to go. He'd been so happy to take shelter in the barn that he hadn't thought about how it would act as a trap if anyone came upon them.

Straining, Erik could hear footsteps, followed by the creak of the barn door swinging open and the increased volume of the wind, which continued to gust violently. The beam of a flashlight swept the dimness of the barn, landed on the fire, which flared and burned brighter from the air blowing in from the doorway, and then on Erik's feet. The light rose to his knees and then his face, and stayed there, blinding him. He staggered out of the way of it, but it followed him.

The door closed, lessening the wind's howl. In the relative quiet, a man's voice said, “I know who you are. I saw you on TV. A kid and a dog like this one, both gone missing. There's a reward for bringin' you back, and I guess I'll be the one to claim it.”